It was good to see you at Thanksgiving, though it was so brief. You did seem different. I felt, in some ways, like I felt when Lew came out of that awful place, by which I mean that something essential had changed. You were carrying with you another world, another hope—or maybe it was simply something unavailable to me, growing in you. I loved all those wonderful imitations you did of your professors, the way you made it all seem so ridiculous and unreal, as if you’d just returned from Patagonia. But this is the unreal place, where there’s no fake eccentricity instead of true madness, full of people who have blinded themselves to survive. I couldn’t help but feel that you probably imitated all of us too, to your new friends, that they’re getting the image of some antic town full of goofy characters.

I hate to burden you with this, but I’m worried about Lew and don’t know who else to turn to. He often seems to be speaking to someone angrily. Sometimes when I come downstairs to the office, he will have sweated through his shirt, his whole body trembling, and will look at me like he has no idea who I am. At other times he can be fine, but they seem like visits—like your visits from Boston—which deny the truth, the true place in which he has taken hold and is growing. It’s the place of his passionate voice and sweating, a place where he’s afire. Truer than this place. Truer than I am.

I’m selfish. I hate to think of my orbit growing ever colder. Especially with my own husband. With you.

I miss you.

Annie

Dear Annie and Lew: